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Twenty-One
I’ve been tapping my pen on my yellow legal pad for the last thirty-four minutes. I was hoping to get a little writing in but I’ve just been sitting here trying to convince myself that everything that happened between Nick and me in the last eight hours is totally normal. I throw my head back, downing the rest of the lobby coffee.
That’s where I’ve been since Nick locked himself in the bathroom—the lobby. And in case you’ve never been in a motel lobby, it’s extremely... underwhelming. There are no real chairs. Just a couple of stools against a tiny bar in an alcove next to a couple of old vending machines. The smell of ammonia battles with one of those air freshener sprays with a name like Garden Spring or Fresh Linen—but there’s nothing fresh about it.
“I thought I might find you here.” Nick’s voice startles me and he tosses a fast-food breakfast sandwich on my legal pad.
“What’s this for?” I ask, averting my eyes.
“It’s for eating, Olivia. Didn’t think I’d need to explain that one to you.” He takes the stool next to mine and unwraps his greasy sausage biscuit. I peel back the crinkly wrapping, melted cheese sticking to it, and my gut grumbles eagerly. “I know how much you like bacon,” he says with a full mouth.
“Thanks.” I finally look over at him chewing away. His hair seems softer this morning for some reason. Everything about him feels softer. Would it be wrong to crawl back in bed and cuddle with him right now?
My mind’s telling me no, but oh, my body...
I try to picture him with a cigarette in his mouth but it’s not working.
“You’re welcome. I’ve never met a woman who loves greasy fast food as much as I do.”
“They call it SAD but I love the standard American diet.”
“Land of the free, home of the morbidly obese.” He holds his half-eaten, processed biscuit high, and my bacon sandwich–holding hand meets his in a toast. The moment our knuckles meet, there’s a tingling in my belly and it’s not from the trans fats. Our eyes lock for a split second, just long enough to feel visually penetrated. That’s it, I can’t touch him again for the rest of the trip.
Not without consequences anyway.
He swallows his big bite, completely unaware of the battle that’s brewing in my mind. “So last night was bizarre.”
I laugh nervously and feel a strong vibration in my pants.
Oh, hahahaha. It’s just my phone.
I pull it out of my back pocket, holding my breath for a moment before I send it to voicemail. I’ll call her later. “It’s Imani,” I say, setting the phone aside.
“You should take it. I was about to go outside anyway.” Nick crushes the sandwich wrap.
“It’s okay. I don’t want to talk to her right now.”
“Why? Is she obnoxious?” Nick asks.
“Not usually but she’s been up my ass about getting another real job. I keep trying to tell her that comedy is a real job.”
“Is it though?”
“Yeah... I mean, I think so. Don’t you?”
“I used to think it was.” To hear Nick somewhat side with Imani on this is like a smack in the mouth. It stings.
“You know, seeing as I just left a steady job to go on a comedy tour with you, you’re not exactly inspiring a ton of confidence right now.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, if you’re looking for someone else to validate your choice, you’ll never make it in this business.”
His words feel like another smack. Only this one is so hard that it knocks the wind out of me. After a moment, his statement settles and I can breathe again. I’m a ball of confidence, ready to roll over any naysayers (or ignore their calls). I don’t need anyone to validate my choice to be a comic. Not even Nick.
“Excuse me.” A motel clerk approaches, a gold watch shining on his wrist while his plastic name tag reads Fredrick Hudson—Manager. “Are you the couple staying in room 137?”
“We’re not a couple,” we blurt in unison. Nick steps away from me, reinforcing the idea.
Fredrick raises an eyebrow. “But you are staying in room 137, right? With the broke PTAC unit?”
